More Than A Deck
by compassrose7577
Summary: Following AWE/AU, no longer on the Black Pearl, Gibbs is adrift, and winds up looking for more than just a ship to sail.
1. Chapter 1

**Gibbs** shifted his weight on the barrel head and leaned back against the bags of rice piled behind him, his eyes shifting idly from side to side as he took in the activities of Savannah's harbor. He took another long drink of ale from his tankard and watched as the long rows of sullen slaves trudged past, carrying bags, bales and crates on their sweat-glistened backs, loading the various ships. With cargo nets swinging above like over-weighted seagulls, the docks were a din of noise and activity.

The harbor beyond was filled with ships, a grid-worked forest of masts and yards. Each vessel nodded gently at their anchors, waiting patiently in the glaring sun for either their turn at dockside or the arrival of the barges and tenders that bore cargo and stores.

He threw a dark look toward a schooner at the far eastern corner of the bay. That very morning, he had just arrived on that worm-ridden rumrunner—and it had been the voyage from Hell. Its captain and crew were so lubberly—a bunch of half-masted monkeys—he counted his blessings they ever made it to port. A few days earlier, a storm had nearly been their undoing, so laggard and shallow-pated their handling of ship and sail. The ship had a stink about it, too, that led him to suspect more recent cargoes had been of the human sort, rather than rum.

He looked forward to signing on with another ship, but he was not going to allow himself to be hasty. He had learned his lesson—and a hard one it was—and would be much more judicious in his next choice. Two of the ships in the harbor he recognized, but had no intentions of sailing with either of their captains, loggerheaded, bladders of air the lot of them.

There were familiar faces about, pirates; he had seen them and they had seen him. Some he nodded a mum greeting as they passed, but none were so familiar as to be worth surrendering his shaded spot in the midst of the noonday heat. There would be plenty of time tonight to gather in the tavern, drink rum and swap yarns.

Everyone on the docks seemed to feel the weight of presence of the Royal Navy ship in the harbor, overseeing everyone and everything. He dropped his gaze to the boards at his feet as Marines, bright red in a sea of weather-faded, marched past. Their presence would curtail his activities for sure and would probably add a bit more alacrity to his departure.

Bored quickly by the all too familiar process of loading ships, he allowed his attention to drift to a group of boys playing at the landward end of the next pier. Head-scarved and wielding wooden swords, it was clear 'pirates' was their game. A wry smile tugged one corner of his wide mouth as he shook his head in wonderment. Ah, the wondrous purity of youth!

From his vantage point, he watched their battles, their boyish guttural shouts echoing across the water. A frown gradually grew as he observed their swordsmanship. It was, at best, questionable. If they were allowed to continue practicing such bad habits, they might be ruined for life.

Grumbling under his breath and with a purposeful stride, he made his way between horses, wagons, carts, barrels and bales off the dock and around to where the boys played. Baffled by his approach, the boys stood wide-eyed and gape-mouthed as he began an energetic and animated instruction as to the proper brandishing of a cutlass.

"Get that elbow down, lad! Stiffen yer wrists! Now, lunge! Lunge! No, no, not like you're asking your mother for another glass of milk! Make like you want to kill the bloody weasel before he kills you!"

Exasperated, he seized the weapon from one boy's hand and drug another by the arm to the center of the circle.

"Now, watch me, you bunch of cock-eyed wretches! Come at me, boy!" He beckoned with crooked fingers to the one he had so unceremoniously deposited in the dust before him. "C'mon!" he roared. "Come at me a-fore I run ye through with this piece of kindling ye's call a sword."

Goggle-eyed, the lad hesitated then put his head down and charged forward. Gibbs easily blocked the crate-slat sword aside.

"Hold it there!" he barked at his opponent, then turned a gimlet eye toward his students. "Now, when the man's hand goes up, like this, do ye see, come at 'im like this!" He rammed a rigid finger into the thin ribs, the boy emitting a pained yelp. "Come at 'im from here, and you can run him through clean to his liver. It'll take him a few hours to die, but he won't be a-botherin' ye anymore."

Waving a hand, he urged the boys back to their drills and stood back, mopping one side of his face with his sleeve as he watched. Some of them weren't that much younger than himself when he first went to sea.

_Ah, but that be a long time ago and a lot of water has slipped the hull since then._

As the boys were locked in imaginary battle, he caught a sound he hadn't heard in many, many months: A soft, metallic jingle. Following the noise, it led him to an older boy, who had been keeping well to the back of the group since Gibbs' arrival. Grabbing the boy by the shoulder, Gibbs whirled him around. The red headscarf caught his eye first, sun-faded but so very familiar, with a not so customary strand of beads and a scrimshawed tooth hanging at the forehead. Giving the boy a shake, he heard the sound again. Looking down to the boy's grimy neck, he found a silver medallion with linked dangles hung on a string.

"Hell and corruption, where'd ye get that, boy!"

"I found it," the lad stammered.

He twisted a handful of the boy's collar and shook him again, literally lifting the lad until his toes barely drug the dirt.

"God rot yer bones! You want to be reconsiderin' as maybe you didn't steal it?"

"No, honest," the boy pleaded, flapping helplessly. "I found it."

"Aye, he did," chimed in a second boy, stepping forward. He licked his lips, and then went on. " I was with him."

Loosing his grip, Gibbs narrowly studied the two grimy confessors before him.

"Found it where?" he finally demanded. It was a question he feared the answer, but needed asking.

"On the beach," offered the first one.

"Just lyin' there," added the second.

"Aye!" agreed the first, nodding eagerly then sagged in the face of the dubious glare Gibbs threw him. "Okay!" he stammered, cringing. "It was on a man."

"Washed up on shore he was."

Gibbs' heart lurched with hope and then sunk with despair within a beat of each other.

"He was dead, so I took it," the boy went on then shrugged, clearly failing to see the harm in his thievery. "He wasn't going to need it any more."

Gibbs swallowed hard, wishing for his flask, before he could speak. "You're sure he was dead?"

"Aye, sir, he was just lyin' there on the sand, with the seagulls eatin' on him."

The other boy nodded, going ill and pale looking. "Looked like his leg had been eaten away, too."

Bracing a hand on the boy's shoulder, Gibbs sagged for a moment, struggling to erase mental flashes of a demise he had hoped would never be visited upon such a good friend.

Jack Sparrow was easily the most vexatious man on land or at sea, but he had an honest streak and a good heart that was unmatched. For years, he had spent many a night in taverns regaling anyone who would listen with his tales of Captain Jack's adventures. The man deserved a better end than gull bait.

In a single swipe, he jerked the metal piece from the boy's neck and snatched the headscarf free, shaking them both in his fist before the lad's face.

"That was a friend of mine ye were a-stealin' from…a very, good friend."

Both boys cowered, shrinking back as they began to shake, their eyes growing in fear.

"Honest, we thought he was dead!"

Gibbs shook as well, but instead with anger, unspeakably furious at the insult of these street urchins stealing and defiling Jack's body. Hands on his hips, he straightened to his full height, towering over the pilferers.

"Be off to Hell, you bunch o' dung-souled wharf-rats! You'd steal the pennies off a dead man's eyes!" In a blaze of fury, he reached for his sword. "I should spear you's all like the sharks you are!"

Squealing in fear, all the boys took off running, scattering in all directions like a covey of quail. Sword bared, Gibbs followed their retreat with a glare, until they were out of sight. Reluctantly, he looked down at the metal piece in his palm, lightly tossing it in the air just high enough to hear it's soft metallic clatter. From his other hand hung the faded red scarf.

It had been some months ago since he nodded a farewell to Jack, standing at the end of the dock in Tortuga. How Jack did love Tortuga! With a cup of rum in one hand and his two favorite whores under each arm…A wistful smile grew on Gibbs' lips. Aye, that was how he preferred to remember Jack. If he had anything to do with it, that would be the way Jack would be memorialized, in every port, in every tavern, he ever visited again. He'd make sure bloody damned sure of that!

He needed a drink, badly. His fingers curled, yearning for the flask at his hip that he knew to be dry. An empty flask was of minor consequence; he would be needing considerably more than a flask to drown what ailed him tonight.


	2. Chapter 2

**Gibbs** leaned heavily on his elbows, staring balefully at the silver medallion on the table before him. Slowly, he took another long pull from the rum bottle, replacing it with exaggerated care in its place next to the ornament.

The sounds of the tavern around him had long since faded away, somewhere near the middle of the first bottle of rum. Now, as he passed the halfway mark of the second, his mind's world was filled with only the echoes of a gravelly voice with the most annoying habit of talking in circles. He preferred to think his vision was blurred due to the fetid dank of the tavern and the amount of drink consumed, but it wasn't completely unlikely there was another cause.

Wadding the headscarf in his fist, he brusquely swiped one eye, muttering unkind remarks about the amount of smoke in the room. Heaving a long sigh, he held up the silver piece and gave it a gentle shake, recalling the innumerable times he had heard that sound coming up behind him. Rarely did he ever know what was to be next: berated, harangued, praised, befuddled or humored. If anything, Jack Sparrow was the most unpredictable man he had ever met…and the most natural seaman and navigator he'd ever witnessed.

A serving girl scuffed to a stop near his table. Blindly, he waved her on, currently in need of nothing from her.

"Be gone with ye, missy!" he growled, irritated by her lingering. "I'm in no mood for pestilence."

"How did you come by that?"

His head snapped up at the sound of the girl's voice. Upon a second inspection, she was no girl at all, but every bit middle-aged, well worn by life. With a hip-tray propped at her waist, she gave him a narrow look. "Where did you get that?" she demanded.

"From someone who had no cause to have it!"

"I know who had it this morning," she hissed. "A man your age should be ashamed of taking something so trivial from an eleven year-old boy."

"It belonged to a very good friend of mine and I'm well into the process of giving him my final regards, if ye don't mind!"

Her countenance softened at his retort, her eyes flickering from the medallion to his face and back.

"You knew him?"

"Aye," he confirmed, his voice dropping to a hoarse whisper. "I knew 'im and he deserved a better end than to be robbed like some nameless gob…"

"He's not dead."

Gibbs froze, his words catching in his throat. "What?"

"At least he wasn't this morning; could be by now," she speculated, her eyes drifting toward the far door. "He was bad off, last I saw of him."

"Where?" He lurched from the bench and seized her by the arm barely mindful of the painful wince he caused her. "Where is he?"

His grip tightened as she attempted to twist away. Realizing himself, he released her, but held her with his gaze. "Please," he murmured. "If ye've a shred of decency in ye, tell me where he is."

Hesitant, she slid him a cautious look then came to her decision.

"South, along the beach," she said with a jerk of her head. "There's a fishing village; you can't miss it. He's there."

Sputtering with relief as he scooped the mementos from the table, he turned to leave then paused with a second thought. Rummaging in his pocket, he pulled out several coins and pressed them into her palm, murmuring heart-felt thanks. Within seconds, he was out the door.

**It** was the longest walk of his life. The tide was out and the beach was firm, making for an easy walk, but it was still the most arduous trip he'd ever made.

The last blushes of sunlight were just dusting the horizon as he arrived at the mouth of the river as it dumped into the Atlantic. There, he turned south down the beach. The evening offshore breeze was just beginning to build, blowing him the scents of palmetto, pine, mud flats and rotting vegetation from the land to his right passing across toward the ocean on his left. The stars had pin-pricked the sky with their sparks of light, the moon hanging in a bare sliver over his shoulder, by the time he spotted the fires of the village.

As advertised by the serving wench, it was a fishing settlement, marked so by numerous overturned boats pulled up on shore and nets hung to dry between nearly every tree. Huddled on an island formed by ocean on one side and forks of a river on the other, the village consisted of no more than a dozen houses, none much more than a single-roomed cabin. As he neared, the campfires lit the buildings and surrounding trees in an orange glow, giving the inhabitants an eerie wraith-like appearance as they moved about the fires' perimeter. Men, women and children alike paused in their evening activities at his approach, seeming puzzled but not alarmed. Ducking under one of the nets, he nodded, suddenly feeling awkward.

"I'm looking for a man," he began, cautiously checking each face. "Ye's found him on the beach, a few days past."

Almost imperceptibly, one man, face weathered to the point of unrecognizable age, nodded, narrowing a wary eye.

Gibbs swallowed hard, licking his lips, afraid to ask his next question. "Does he still live?"

The sun-wrinkled face considered for several moments then, to Gibbs great relief, jerked a single nod toward one of the shacks. Muttering unintelligible thanks, Gibbs strode quickly, pulling up short at the step of the shack's stoop. A woman, as equally weathered as the other inhabitant, gave him a mildly curious look.

"Are you the friend he seeks?"

Gibbs shrugged. "I don't know."

"He calls for someone," she said simply.

Silently, Gibbs asked his question and the woman answered, tipping her head in permission toward the doorway.

It was literally that, a doorway, with naught else in the way of a barrier between the world outside and what lay inside. The shack was small, barely larger than some cabins aboard ship, windowless and dirt-floored. To one side hung a pair of rope hammocks, and on the other rested a pallet, barely inches off the dirt.

His nostrils twitched at the wall of smell that assaulted him at the doorway, not just of sweat and sickness, but also of putrefying flesh. He knew the smell; he knew what it meant and his heart sank as his throat clutched closed.

Slowly lowering to his knees at the pallet's side, Gibbs picked up the lit oil lamp from an overturned bucket and held it high enough to see the occupant, muttering and murmuring in delirium. His hand shook at skeletal-like shadows the light cast across the face, the eyes and nostrils going to blackened holes. For a second, the rants increased, and the head turned. Raising the illumination higher, the shadows softened and he saw it was Jack.

Horrifyingly thin, he laid naked, a scant piece of roughly woven cloth tossed as a blanket across mid-torso. Even in the dark, his skin was pasty white, his tattoos and scars offering any further affirmation Gibbs may have needed in the identification. Gone were the familiar ornaments and headscarf, as well as any of the other costume that made the man…but it was he, nonetheless.

The sound of bare feet in the dirt behind him drew his attention away. Glancing over his shoulder, Gibbs saw it was the same woman who allowed him entrance.

"Is it you been carin' for 'im?" He barely recognized his own voice, so tight and sparse.

"We found him a few days ago, on the beach. At first, we thought he was dead, but…" Her words faded away, any further explanation seeming unnecessary.

Gibbs gave a resigned sigh. "Aye."

"His leg's broken—badly; not all the way through the skin, but bad enough."

Only then did Gibbs notice Jack's leg, grotesquely swollen and braced at mid-thigh with a barrel stave, secured by several strips of cloth. More distressing was across his thigh: a long deep gash, nearly the length of his forearm. Swinging the lamp closer, the cloying smell grew sharply stronger as Gibbs bent to inspect. Oozing, the edges of the wound were blackened, with angry red streaks running upward across the untanned white of Jack's leg.

"The wound was old when we found him," the woman explained quickly, clearly, defensive of what Gibbs might be thinking. For the first time he noticed, she spoke with a soft Scots accent. "Looked to us as he may have been in the water for a while."

Sitting back, he saw raw, ragged-edged sores scattered about Jack's hand, arms and shoulders. "The seagulls were eating him," echoed back in a boy's voice.

For some inexplicable reason, Gibbs touched a hand to Jack's arm and jerked back, Jack twitching in a reflexive recoil.

"He's burning up."

"Been that way since we found him," the woman went on, kneeling in the dirt next to Gibbs. She scooped a dipper of water from the bucket near Jack's head and gently dribbled some between the split, peeling lips. "I think he might be worse today," she sighed, dropping the dipper back in the bucket. She gave Gibbs a long look of regret and remorse. "We've done all we can."

"Ye be needin' to do more."

The woman rolled back on her knees with a blank look. Fumbling in his pockets, Gibbs pulled out every coin he carried. Seizing her hand, he shoved them into her palm.

"I'll be needin' all the liquor you can get; rum brandy, wine anything. Be there any laudanum or poppy oil?"

The woman's eyes dropped to her lap. "No," she whispered. "We've nothing."

"Fair enough." Gibbs' blood was beginning to pulse. At last, finally, he had a plan. "Then get me boiling water, lye soap and a stiff brush." The woman's eyes widened as she realized Gibbs' intentions. "Just go!"

Startled into action, she scrambled out, leaving him alone with Jack.

His stomach lurched at the prospect of what he was about to do. A bit of liquor, whatever theses wretches managed to collect, would have to be for himself, as well. This was going to take more nerve than he would be able to muster unaided. He'd seen it done before…once it worked, and the limb was saved. Another time…well, he wouldn't think about that just now; couldn't bear to.

Feeling helpless, just sitting in the dirt, Gibbs pulled the headscarf from his pocket. Dunking it in the water, he swabbed Jack's face. The fever burned so hot the cloth was warm in Gibbs' hand in a matter of seconds. Dipping again, he squeezed the water over Jack's head and chest, half expecting to hear a sizzling sound as the water trickled across.

Intent on his task, he saw from the corner of his eye Jack's eyes opening. They were only slits, blackened pools, but fever bright.

"Gibbs!" Jack's usual gravelly voice was a sparse whisper. "I knew you'd come."

He actually attempted a smile, a bare bit of gold glimmering between his lips. "Back from you trip ashore so soon, eh? Meet any salty, fat widows?"

Gulping, Gibbs nodded. "Aye, Cap'n'"

Jack's eyes went distant for several moments, as he drifted off into his fevered-state. Jerking, he suddenly came back into focus.

"We've a storm building on our port stern and gaining, mate." Hands folded on his stomach, his fingers lifted slightly in a ghost of their usual animation. "You'll need to prepare the crew."

Before Gibbs could answer, Jack eyes rolled closed, melting away into his muddled dreams.

Gibbs sagged with relief for a moment then picked up his ministrations again, silently cursing the woman for taking so long, then cursing himself for being so unrealistic in his expectations.

Sometime later, Jack's eyes opened again, glittering in the light of the lamp.

"Elizabeth!" His voice, thin and sparse, still held a lilt. "She's here!" In a feeble effort, he made to lift his head, falling limp. As his hands moved restlessly on his abdomen Gibbs noticed the empty fingers, his rings were gone. Filthy little, thieving buggers! "Tell her to make ready, we'll shove off…" His words faded into oblivion.

Time hung in a motionless fog as Gibbs hunched near the pallet, offering whatever pitiful comfort he could. At one point, the bucket empty, he rose to go fill it. A faint blush of pink hung over the indigo of the ocean as he found the rain barrel; morning was near.

Sometime or other, he dozed off, his head propped on one bent knee. The woman, whatever her name was, had been correct in her evaluations: The fever was worsening; Jack had slipped further, from delirium to a deathly stillness, the shack filled with the rattling rasp of his breathing.

The doorway glowed with dawn's light when the woman reappeared, bleary-eyed, but bearing all Gibbs had requested.

"What's your name, lass?" Gibbs asked.

"Morag," she replied, her Scots going thicker. "Morag MacMurray."

"Aye, well, Morag, we've an ugly deed that need be done. Will ye be up to it?"

In the daylight, her hair proved to be salt-and-peppered, pulled back in a thin tail at the base of her neck. Apprehensively she stared at Jack, clearly understanding Gibbs'. She closed her eyes, seemingly summoning strength, and then slowly nodded.

"Tell me what to do," she said, in a faint, wavering voice.

Heaving a long sigh of relief, Gibbs shifted his attentions to the task at hand.

"I'll start a-pourin' as much of this rum down 'im as can be." He gave Jack a sympathetic glance. "It won't help him much, but it'll be the only hope he has. We'll be needin' four of the biggest, strappin'est you have to hold him down. And be bringing that boilin' water directly," he called after her as she scurried away.

An unconscious, near-death's-door man is not an easy one to administer drink, but Gibbs doggedly dribbled as much as he could between Jack's lips, pausing periodically to take a large dose himself. By the time Morag returned with two hulking men and two that looked as if they were barely strong enough to hold themselves upright and a kettle of boiling water, Gibbs was well-braced himself.

Posting a man at all of Jack's four corners, Gibbs held his knife in one hand and a second bottle of rum in the other, poised over the festered leg.

"Hold him."

He took a deep breath, and began.


	3. Chapter 3

**Wobbly-kneed** and shaking, Gibbs waded into the island's surrounding creek and fell face down into the water. Sputtering as he rose to his knees, he dunked his head several times more in the chest-deep water, shaking himself like a great bear each time.

Only slightly refreshed, he waded back and collapsed on the beach. Bracing his forearms on his bent knees, he hung his head between his arms, and gasped for each breath. Valiantly struggling, he finally lost the battle and wretched the dry heaves for the fourth time since he finished.

The smell still hung in his head and nostrils. He knew from past experiences it would pass; it would take a few days, but the stench of blackened, putrid flesh would eventually clear.

What he wasn't sure he would ever forget was the sound of Jack screaming as he poured the rum over the open wound, followed closely by the agonized writhing and wails as Gibbs used his knife to cut away the bad from the good. Everyone in the shack was sweating and shaking by the time he finished, all pausing together for a small swig of the little bit of rum that was left before they continued on to step two: Boiling water, a scrub brush and lye soap.

Mercifully, somewhere in the middle of that process, Jack collapsed in exhaustion, reduced to thrashing like a new kitten against his captors. Periodically, he emitted long, tortured sounding, tremulous moans that faded either from lack of strength or falling unconscious; it was difficult to say.

Finished heaving, Gibbs wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Holding it up, he turned it in slow examination and found himself wondering if any of what he had just done was for naught. Maybe he had just saved Jack's life, only to leave him permanently crippled, or, maybe it had all been for nothing, and he would shortly have to return the shack to remove the leg. Or, more probably, he had tortured his best friend in his last hours, denying him the peaceful death he so rightly deserved.

He would know soon enough.

Waiting was never a skill Gibbs had perfected, and he found he still was sorely lacking in that skill.

Jack's fever raged for the remainder of the day, his skin so hot and tight Gibbs wondered what prevented it from spontaneously splitting open, his breathing diminishing to a thin, ragged, rattling pant, each one a struggle. Morag and Gibbs worked as a silent team, bathing, fetching water, changing bandages and waiting. Doggedly they trickled water, and sometimes even a little thinned fish broth, between the parched, cracked lips, neither one of them willing to admit aloud that Jack might be slowly slipping away.

Alone, in the early evening gloom of the cabin, Gibbs woke with a start, having nodded off, his head lolling heavily against his chest. Blinking wide, he tried to fathom what had woken him. It was then he realized it wasn't what he did hear, but what he didn't. The room was quiet, silent, nothing but the distant roll of the surf and cries of seagulls. Further off, came echoes of the village, women chatting and children playing. What he didn't hear was Jack.

Cautiously, he held the oil lamp closer, peering for any sign then sagged with a shuddering sigh of relief upon seeing the slow rise and fall of Jack's ribcage. Only then did he notice the gleam of sweat that sheathed Jack's slim body, from head to toe. Sweat, glorious, drenching sweat!

The fever had broken.

Gibbs and Morag spent the night deeply immersed in the new battle as Jack vacillated radically from searing fevers to racking, shivering chills, often within moments of each other. Floundering and thrashing, he'd bat wildly, too heated to tolerate anything touching him, cursing unseen aggressors. Minutes later, he curled into himself, quaking with cold, and always, in either case, bathed sweat, the boards of the pallet underneath darkening in a wet circle.

Slowly, inexorably, the chills lessened and the heat of his skin cooled, and finally, praise be, he fell quiet.

"I think he's sleeping," whispered Morag, pushing back a heavy lock of sweat-matted hair from Jack's shoulder.

Exhausted, Morag retired to where ever her home might be. Gibbs crawled into one of the hammocks and fell into his own restful oblivion.

Jack rested peacefully for the remainder of the day, rousing only when the bandages were changed, waving a feeble hand to be left alone, immediately slipping back into a blithe slumber when they finished.

Much later, Gibbs dozed, propped against the wall. He awoke to the feeling someone was watching him. Jack laid awake, his eyes lighting as he recognized his first mate then clouded.

"Gibbs."

It took a visible effort to produce the single word, coming out in a thin wheeze. Slowly his eyes rolled closed, and Gibbs assumed he slept again. In a few moments, however, Jack jerked awake, staring wide at the sea grass ceiling overhead. Cautiously, he turned his head toward Gibbs, his brow furrowing.

"Is this the Locker again?"

"No," Gibbs replied, bearing a wry smile.

Jack carefully settled himself. "I thought not," he said, with a slight hint of satisfaction. His eyes closed again, looking up again several minutes later. "Where am I?"

"A bit south of Savannah."

"Savannah?" he murmured. "How the bloody hell did I get here?"

"I was about to ask you the same." He saw Jack lick his lips and reached for the water dipper. "Thirsty?"

"Aye, a bit, but I was hoping for something stronger." With some difficulty, he swallowed. "Me throat seems a bit raw."

Gibbs held his face firm against the echoes of screaming from the day before as he pressed the rim of his flask to Jack's lips. An awkward silence fell between them as Gibbs returned the flask to the inside of his shirt. In the flickering dim of the lamp, he saw Jack brace against the pain, and then carefully twitch his leg, tentatively seeking any sensation.

"Hurt much?"

Jack's eyes flickered nervously in Gibbs' direction, hesitant, visibly summoning the courage to ask any further questions. He took one breath then slowly let it out, and then finally drew in another.

"How bad?" he asked in a thin rasp, one hand clenching into a fist where it rested on his stomach.

Gibbs leaned closer and laid a reassuring hand on Jack's shoulder. "You're whole."

Jack shot a black look. "I'm no fool, mate!" he hissed, vehemently. "I know the smell!"

"T'was bad," Gibbs sighed, agreeably, glancing toward the bandage. "And may still be, but for now, ye've everything the Good Lord saw fit to put ye on this earth with."

The fist tightened, shaking with the effort, a shudder of relief coursing the entire length of Jack's body.

"I'll live." He breathed it in a bare whisper.

"Aye," Gibbs confirmed, tightening his grip on Jack's shoulder. "You'll live."

His hand lingered in place as he felt Jack gradually slump, and knew he was drifting off to sleep. It pleased Gibbs to see the look of peace on his captain's face. It was well deserved.

**Gibbs **spent the afternoon on the shack's stoop, his back propped again the roof's post, watching the activities of the village. Accustomed to his presence by now, the inhabitants nodded as they passed, and even paused to made small conversations with him, politely inquiring as to Jack's progress.

The settlement's children were fascinated by him, and little by little, their games circled closer and closer to him, until they were finally at his feet, goggle-eyed and slack-jawed at his tales of the sea. The girls squealed in fear and the boys scooted closer on their haunches as he told them of curses, storms, monsters… and, of course, Captain Jack Sparrow.

Finally sending them on their way, he rose and went in to check on Jack. He found him awake, quietly starting at the ceiling again. Earlier, with Morag's help, they had propped him up a bit with some rolled canvas. He certainly appeared more comfortable.

"Thought ye'd be sleepin'."

"Bloody difficult for a man to get his rest with you out there scaring the bejeezus out of a bunch of innocent youths with your fish tales," he bristled amiably. He gave Gibbs a mystified look. "Children have always been attracted to you—like the proverbial Pied Piper. Must be something in the way you lie to them. Or maybe they just recognize another child."

Gibbs lowered himself onto the top of a keg. He picked up a bowl from next to the pallet.

"Here," he offered. "Morag left this for ye a bit ago. She said as ye were to eat it or she'd stuff it down ye."

"Woman's a bit of a pestilence," Jack grumbled, considering the bowl of mostly rice with a disdainful eye. "Still, if it's to be this or a broken arm…"

Balancing the bowl in his lap, he proceeded to take several bites, chewing slowly and struggling to swallow.

"So how'd ye come to be this far?" Gibbs asked, hoping some kind of conversation might serve as a distraction to Jack's displeasure of eating. "I thought as ye'd be headin' after Barbossa."

"I was." Jack said around a mouthful, pausing to swallow before continuing. "Made it as far as Kayo Hueso; got meself another boat there—bigger one—in a card game." He made a face at the dipper of water Gibbs offered, then relented and took a drink. "Had a crew of three—more than enough, no bigger than it was—and was heading north, toward St. Augustin."

"Missed it by a bit," Gibbs observed.

"Aye, storm came up; blew like Calypso herself was after us. Was managing fine until boom snapped; caught me up in the lines. That's when I sliced me leg." He took another bite and slowly chewed before continuing. "Few minutes later, we broached a wave and over we went. Not sure if it was the boom or the mast that caught me in the leg again. For a bit there, I thought maybe I'd ripped the bloody thing clean off. The hull turtled and I managed to crawl up, but the rest of the crew was gone."

"Then what?"

Jack lifted one shoulder, letting it fall. "Not really sure." He resettled his head against the rolled canvas behind his head. "I know I drifted; no way of knowing how long."

His face contorted in thought. "I swear I saw Tia Dalma."

Gibbs mouth curled in wary disbelief. "You mean Calypso?"

"Looked like Tia Dalma to me," explained Jack, simply. "As deliriously macabre as ever! Brought me sea turtles, she did." He held up a hand, inspecting it thoughtfully the multiple small sores. "I wonder if that's what was chewing on me."

"Sea turtles, it would figure," Gibbs chuckled, shaking his head. "Why not?"

"How did you come to be here?" Jack asked as he shoved another finger's full of rice and fish in his mouth.

Digging in his pocket, Gibbs pulled out the silver ornament and dangled it between his fingers. Jerking at the recognition, Jack reflexively reached for his hair, his fingers wildly groping along the side of his face and neck.

"No mistakin' it," Gibbs said, dropping gently in Jack's outstretched palm. "Some boys took it off you when they found you lyin' on the beach. Oh, and here!" Reaching over to the water bucket, he snagged the headscarf and dropped that in Jack's hand as well. "A bit wet; we were usin' it there for a bit….but it's yours for sure."

Jack rolled the two possessions in his hand. "And the rest of me effects?"

Gibbs shook his head. "Got no idea; you'll have to take that up with Morag. Aye, she be the one was carin' for ye long before I arrived. You've been wearin' nothin' but that scrap o' blanket since I got here."

He watched as Jack shifted, stifling a painful grunt as he did so. "Hurt?"

"Might say," Jack replied between tightened lips. "Any chance of anything stronger than that creek water?"

Gibbs broke a wide smile at Jack's hopeful one and produced his flask. "Go easy," he warned. "Might be a long time 'til the next refill. So, what's next," he asked as Jack handed back the flask.

"It would appear as though I'll have at least another week or two before I'll be moving far," Jack point out, gesturing toward his leg.

"Long than that," warned Gibbs. "It's broke pretty bad."

"Whatever." Jack waved the point off with a dismissive hand then rolled a meaningful sideways look. "I'll be needing a boat."

"Jack, you can't mean it!"

"Why not?"

"Well, considerin' all ye've been through over the years, seems like, to a thinking man as you might be considerin' giving up on the _Pearl_."

Jack twisted slightly and gave Gibbs a look equal to as if he had just suggested the world was flat.

"Are you drunk or daft?" He shook his head adamantly. "I thought you knew me well enough to know better than that!"

"Ye've been through so much, Jack," Gibbs pleaded. "I just was thinking as mebbe the _Pearl_ might be your curse rather than your blessing."

Jack gave an incredulous scowl. "You're saying you think she's bad luck?"

"Not sayin, just suggestin'. Look, you've been branded, cursed, mutinied, marooned, fed to the kraken, lost in Jones' locker, now mutinied again, shipwrecked, and near lost your leg, not to mention yer life. How much more can you take a-fore your luck runs out?" It occurred to him after he said it that 'luck' might not have been the proper word to use.

Jack was already resolutely shaking his head, his hair bobbing in a wild mass around his bare shoulders.

"Never, mate." He paused, a distant look coming to his eyes, ardent, visible even in the dim glow of the lamp. "There's a great hole in me when she's not about. I spent near ten years feelin' half a person, knowing what I needed to make me whole, but unable to get it. It's like the starving man with the plate of food right in front of him, but he can't reach it because his hands are tied, or someone keeps moving the plate…or something," he finished, flapping his fingers. "What little time I've had with her only confirms what I know to be true—she's everything mate. Not just freedom, although that's a great part of it, but…" His words faded, and it occurred to Gibbs he was witnessing Jack Sparrow, for the first time ever, speechless. "I'm nothing without her," he finished lamely. "I've chased around the world before trying to get her back; at least now I know the way."

"No to revisit bad times, but you were ready to abandon ship that one day."

A sly smile played the corners of Jack's mouth. "You—and everyone else—were going to abandon her, but I'd already decided I was going down with her. Just needed to make sure everyone else got away."

"I like you, Jack," Gibbs began, ducking his eyes to the dirt at his feet. "I think ye know, by now, I think the world of ye, but I'd hate to see you wind up dead over a ship."

"Not just any ship," Jack corrected, gently, holding up an admonishing finger. "You know how she feels under your feet, how her wheel fits your hand; you've sailed her. I knew the first day I stepped foot on her decks, she was the only ship I'd ever sail." His eyes lightened as Gibbs nodded knowingly. "And, besides, if I've no ship, then what's the use, eh?"

"You're right, Jack." Gibbs heaved a long resigned sigh. "I guess I sorta lost my head there for a minute."

"You know," Jack began slowly then looked up at Gibbs bearing his widest smile and a hopeful arch to his brows. "With a little help, I could be getting a much earlier start."

"And, with a little help," Gibbs countered, handing his flask back to Jack, "you could be movin' twice as fast, so ye could be affordin' to wait a might longer before you struck out. This be a fishin' village." He paused, casting a rolling eye toward the village beyond. "Might be as we could arrange something."


End file.
